


The Mask

by Wyndle (mollymauks)



Category: Cosmere - Brandon Sanderson, Stormlight Archive - Brandon Sanderson
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M, I just really wanted to explore her thoughts during this scene, I thought: 'you know what Jasnah needs? EXPLICIT SUFFERING', Jasnah is a human being!!!, Jasnah's paranoia and isolation and repeated betrayals are not healthy for her mental health!!!, Missing Scene, So much angst, and I wanted to explore her relationship with Ivory some more, and then I wrote this, she is hurt and scared and she's allowed to be all those things!!!, which I adore and does not get enough screen-time, with human emotions!!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:00:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28201983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mollymauks/pseuds/Wyndle
Summary: Set during TWOK. A Re-Write of the poisoning scene, Chapter 48: Strawberry from Jasnah's POV, plus her reaction right afterwards and some Jasnah/Ivory interactions. Basically a deep-dive into Jasnah's character and her paranoia around betrayal. It's painful. I made myself sad. Now I make you all sad with me. Also an exploration of Jasnah and Ivory's relationship, which I think is really underrated and would love to see more of on-screen.‘A sudden wave of revulsion rose in her. She felt used. She felt violated.Shallan had been close enough to her to do this. She had let her close enough to do this, had dropped her guard, had let her in.She had been carrying around something other, something planted on her, something she had not recognised as not her own. What else could the girl have put on her that she would never have noticed? How easy it would have been for her to slip poison into her wine, or a blade between her ribs.’
Relationships: Ivory & Jasnah Kholin, Shallan Davar & Jasnah Kholin
Comments: 8
Kudos: 37





	The Mask

Jasnah stood as Shallan jump from her hospital bed and rushed to the side of the ardent as he collapsed, convulsing. 

Then she too trembled and fell to the floor. 

“Poison, as we suspected,” Ivory murmured to her, perched on her collar, close to her ear, his words too soft to be heard by any but her. 

Even she barely heard him. She was not listening, already moving as he spoke, sinking to her knees above Shallan and cursing. 

She had thought- In the jam. She had been sure. The piece of bread she’d eaten herself had been an added precaution but storms. She’d been wrong.  _ Storms _ . 

“She’s been poisoned,” she announced to the yammering, scrambling, panicking cacophony of nurses and doctors clustering around her. “I need a garnet. Bring me a garnet!” she added, voice rising, the authority in it finally snapping through the confusion, asserting some order to the chaos. 

Shallan was still stirring beneath her. That was good. There was still time.

The girl was fumbling with something, but Jasnah wasn’t paying attention. 

Beside them, someone was crying out over the ardent. Apparently he had stopped breathing. She did not care about him. But Shallan.  _ Storms _ , Shallan. If she died in a plot to kill Jasnah, if her lack of vigilance led to this, if this was also her fault, she-

“Control, Jasnah,” Ivory said, quiet but firm.

Right. She took a breath, forcing herself to project a composure she still did not feel, but had to pretend at. 

“Shallan,” she murmured, trying to sound soothing, seeing the girl’s eyes rolling, searching blindly in her terror, “I’m going to have to Soulcast your blood to purify it,” she explained gently. 

She had problems, still, administering help without explaining what she was doing, after what had been done to her. Even if, logically, she knew Shallan likely had no idea what she was saying, and couldn’t consent one way or the other. It helped focus her mind. 

“It will be dangerous. Extremely dangerous,” she said, already dreading it. 

Storms. How had it come to this? It should never have gotten to the point that the child was caught in the crossfire from her enemies. She should have stopped it before it did. She should have- No. Those thoughts would not help. She had to deal with what was happening  _ now _ , not waste time worrying about what she should have done. 

“I’m not good with flesh or blood. It’s not where my talent lies,” she continued quietly, stroking Shallan’s hair, aware that a part of her was still panicking, and it was rambling, seeking some kind of purpose while she waited for the correct gemstone.

“You...can’t…” Shallan whispered hoarsely, barely conscious. 

“Hush, child,” Jasnah said, trying to calm her even through her own mounting panic. 

“Where is that garnet!” she snapped at the room around her. 

So many people rushing and talking and hovering around her like buzzing insects, and none of them could bring her what she needed, they- 

“You can’t Soulcast,” Shallan’s voice said, so weak that Jasnah almost missed it. 

But she heard the jangling thump as something hit the floor. A Soulcaster. Identical to the one she wore. Along with a single garnet sphere. Both dislodged from Shallan’s safepouch.

She gasped, eyes going wide. 

A Soulcaster. 

Shallan’s insistence that she couldn’t Soulcast right now. 

Her mind connected dots and screamed terrible conclusions too fast for her already rattled emotions to process.

“Jasnah, she dies,” Ivory said sharply, as Shallan lost consciousness in front of her.

Analysis later. Action now.

She pushed the spiralling thoughts from her brain and seized the garnet sphere, drawing in its light, covering the action by removing her glove and exposing the fabrial on her hand, letting it draw the attention of any who cared to watch her. 

What happened next passed in a haze. Soulcasting flesh or blood was difficult. Doing it while it was still within another person’s body? It took all of her concentration, all of her skill, and all of her self-control to accomplish it. 

And she had to do it over, and over, and over again. 

Each time she thought she had at last succeeded, the girl’s body absorbed more of the poison from her stomach and she strayed towards the Beyond once more. 

Ivory remained with her, encouraging her quietly, assisting in Shadesmar when she began to grow exhausted, not allowing her to become sloppy.

All the while she tried not to think that she might be saving the life of someone who had betrayed her. Someone who might have been in league with the ardent, who might have just tried to kill her. 

At last, Shallan seemed to stabilise, and Taravangian’s healers decided that the poison had been successfully removed from her body. They scooped her up and carried her back to her bed, tucking her up and measuring vitals, praising Jasnah for her swift action, telling her that she’d saved the girl’s life. 

Jasnah followed in something of a trance, not fully conscious of what she was doing, barely hearing their words. 

Now that she didn’t have something to  _ do,  _ a task to focus on, she found her thoughts returning to what Shallan had just said. What it implied. What it meant for her. 

Ivory stayed silent as she stood over her ward, staring down on her face. Storms, she was still so young. She looked more so unconscious, occasionally stirring feebly as the healers attended to her. She looked too small for the large white robe she had on, too young to be caught up in all of this.

Grimacing, she forced herself to examine the two Soulcasters side-by-side. The one from Shallan’s pouch was an exact copy of the one she’d been wearing on her hand. 

The girl’s words confirmed what she had initially suspected. A swap had been made. A fake Soulcaster switched with her own, which Shallan had assumed was real, and had tried to rob her of. 

It was a fake itself. An excellent illusion to allow her to use her powers, carefully, in front of others. Who would assume that the heretic Alethi would be able to Soulcast herself? Using powers almost lost from history to the muddy waters of myth and legend.

But Shallan could not have known that. The fabrial she wore was a perfect copy. As the one she’d given her had been a perfect copy. They were not hard to replicate - not as a mere piece of jewellery, at any rate. 

A sudden wave of revulsion rose in her. 

She felt used. She felt  _ violated _ .

Shallan had been close enough to her to do this. She had  _ let  _ her close enough to do this, had dropped her guard, had let her in.

She had been carrying around something other, something planted on her, something she had not recognised as not her own. What else could the girl have put on her that she would never have noticed? How easy it would have been for her to slip poison into her wine, or a blade between her ribs.

It made her feel contaminated, unclean. 

She felt a strong desire to fling the fabrial from her and shatter it against a wall. But no. She must compose herself. It would not do to cause a scene like that in such a public space. She could not have them doubt her composure, her rational mind.

So she waited, standing still, hands at her sides, staring down at Shallan’s limp form while the surgeons bustled around, as though Soulcast from stone.

“Well, Jasnah,” Ivory said quietly, as a muscle feathered in her jaw after several long, drawn out minutes of just standing there. Waiting. When she wanted to move. She wanted to run. She wanted to  _ get out _ . “You are doing well.” 

He was all that kept her grounded in the agonising, drawn out wait. She was not an impatient person, by nature. She could wait. She could allow things to come in their own time. But Storms this was difficult.

Mercifully, someone approached her to inform her that the ardent, her would-be assassin, had succumbed to his own poison. 

_ Good _ , she thought, rather savagely. 

The sudden intensity of the anger and contempt that surged within her a worrying sign. She had to control that. Always in control. Even when nothing else was. Even when the world slipped closer and closer to Desolation, she would always be in control of herself.

“I would see the body,” she said coldly, tearing her eyes away from Shallan at last.

The healer seemed uncomfortable with that, but she was a storming princess, and this man had just tried to kill her. She would not be denied. And she had not asked. She had commanded. That command was heeded.

They led her to a smaller room, separate from the more public wards Shallan had been in, where they had laid the body of the young man out on a table. 

His death would hurt Shallan, she- No. She would not feel sympathy for her. Not now. Not after what she’d done.

A quick examination was all she needed to locate the tattoo on his forearm that marked Kabsal as a Ghostblood. Another failed attempt on her life by them to add to the growing list, then. 

She did not linger with him. 

She ordered a search of his quarters, though assumed he would be too careful to have any documents or notes of use lying around. His kind typically were. 

Then she forced herself to return to the main room to hear news of Shallan. It hurt. But she had done many things that hurt her over the years. It needed done, and so she would attend to it.

Once the doctors, gently, told her that the girl was now stable, and would survive the ordeal, she left without another word. Merely stopping at the door to request that the girl be guarded, and that she be sent word once she woke. 

Then she gathered her things from the hospital room, and walked, composed, and poised, from the place. 

She maintained that composure, perfect posture, as she’d been taught, straight backed, head high, utterly in control despite everything that had happened. Her racing thoughts. Her still pounding heart. 

She did not waver. She did not break. She did not allow a single crack to slip through the mask she had cultivated so carefully for so many years. 

A mask that was, more and more, becoming difficult to take off or separate herself from. But she couldn’t think of that now. She needed it. She needed the illusion of reason and control it brought to her in this moment of madness.

At last she reached her chambers in the Palaneum. 

She stepped inside. Set her things down, neatly, each in its proper place, then moved to her desk. She drew out the chair, and sat down delicately. She tucked it in, precise, neatly aligned with the edges of the desk. 

Then, alone, sure she would not be seen, she buried her face in her hands, the mask seeming to crumble into them. 

Her shoulders slumped as the weight of everything that had happened crashed down upon her at once. 

She exhaled shakily, squeezing her eyes shut, pressing her fingers against them, trying to process, to regain control to, to- 

“I am sorry, Jasnah,” Ivory’s quiet voice said. 

She felt the ghost of a touch, his hand on her shoulder. In some things, Ivory remained distinctly alien, a spren to the bone, so to speak. But in others he had picked up small human gestures from his time with her. 

She looked up, jaw tight, and found him standing beside her at his full height. He had so rarely assumed that form, lately. He had not felt safe enough to do so. The possibility of an interruption by Shallan had always been present. 

No more. No more...

Jasnah put her safehand to her head, breathing slowly, trying to compose herself, to force control over emotions that were rising and rioting out of control. 

She had barely slept for days. She had camped outside the girl’s hospital room, awaiting any chance to be admitted to see her. She had thought Shallan had attempted to take her own life. She’d thought that had been  _ her _ fault. She had cursed herself endlessly in that sterile white corridor. 

Too much. Too intense. Too harsh. Too demanding. Too caught up in herself to recognise the emotions, and needs, and struggles of others. And it had led to the child’s near death! 

The image of finding her, slumped over, blood pooling around her from the gash on her arm, had haunted her. 

She had lost so much time. Unable to concentrate. The work had been a distraction - but how could she distract herself from the fact she might have killed her young ward? Such a bright, vibrant, promising young woman, driven into darkness by Jasnah. 

It was all a lie. 

Jasnah had panicked in vain. She had grieved in vain. She had blamed herself, and  _ hated _ herself for what she had done in vain. 

It had never been her. 

Shallan’s guilt over the theft had been what had driven her to despair. Not Jasnah.  _ Not _ Jasnah. 

Now this. 

Another assassination attempt by the Ghostbloods. That was not surprising. They were growing bolder, more desperate, as she drew closer and closer to the secrets that could unravel Roshar. 

She had suspected the youthful ardent. He had been too attentive of Shallan, too present, always forcing himself into their lives. Every time he’d visited had likely been an attempt to claim her life. Her prudence had saved her. Again. 

She could deal with that. It was worrying, but she’d long since had guards in place to protect herself from his sort. It was not truly that which caused her such pain in this moment.

What hurt more than any poison could ever have done was the betrayal.

Again. Stormfather. A _ gain _ . 

Shallan. So eager, so intent, so apparently hungry for knowledge and learning. So like Jasnah had been herself, when she’d been younger, caught up in the thrill and joy of scholarship for the first time. 

Jasnah had been stupid. She had let her guard down. She had let Shallan in, when she’d sworn to herself  _ never _ again. But she’d been fooled. She’d been taken in. 

She shivered to think that she had considered sharing the secrets she had uncovered with her. Ivory had agreed. If the Ghostbloods ever succeeded in their mission of killing her, unlikely, but not uncertain, Roshar would not be left in the dark. Lost without the information she’d uncovered. 

She’d been building Shallan up as a lifeline, as a backup, an added safety net for this world she wanted so desperately to protect. What a fool. What a storm’s cursed  _ fool  _ she had been.

She’d actually allowed herself to care for the child. She had let her get close. Close enough to hurt. And of course she had. Of  _ course  _ she had.

Jasnah clenched her hand into a fist and had to stop herself slamming it down on the table with great difficulty. What would that accomplish? 

Yet she longed for it. To give in, for once, to those harsh, near feral instincts, on the off-chance they might actually make her feel better.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to rage. She wanted to tear the heart from her chest, Soulcast it to crystal, and shatter against the wall so she would not have to feel anymore. 

But no. She had slipped in letting Shallan in too close. She could not let her control slip, too. She must be composed. Always composed. Always in control. She could  _ never _ let that slip again. Never. 

So she forced herself to breathe, to slowly unclench her fist and set it down, gently, palm first, on the table. 

Would that she could wrestle her traitorous emotions as easily as her outward responses. 

Shallan.  _ Shallan  _ had betrayed her. Stolen from her. One of her most intimate and precious items, supposedly. Ripped from her person. Replaced with a fake. And she had not noticed. 

That caused her to shiver. 

The fake fabrial had been a cover, a way to hide what she was, lest she find herself the target of more unwanted, irksome assassination attempts.

Or, worse, find herself locked up again as an object of study and- 

No. No that was irrational. But still. This had exposed a weakness, a flaw in the armour she had built around herself. If she had Soulcast while wearing the fake she would have exposed herself. 

Shallan would have known that something was wrong. The girl had enough wit to ask questions, to draw conclusions, as she’d taught her. It could have destroyed everything.

“We haven’t Soulcast around her recently, have we?” she asked Ivory quietly. 

“No,” he said, firm, confirming what she’d suspected and putting her at ease, “Not since we dealt with the killers in the alley.” 

Yes. That was right.

Even so, she felt  _ exposed _ . Horribly so. She felt vulnerable, and used. A means to an end. A vessel for wealth, or prestige, or power. Not a person. She had tried to train Shallan, to educate her, to help her understand the world and she, she- 

Jasnah should have known. 

No-one wanted to get close to her for any reason other than to use what they could of her. Then leave. Regardless of the husk they left in their wake. What did that matter, when they had what they wanted?

No-one had behaved any differently towards her in years. Shallan was not an exception, she was simply the latest example of this rule of her life. 

Hadn’t she accused her of being precisely what she was? Hadn’t she seen the truth of her on that first day? Spoken it to her, even. A rural opportunist, only seeking to use her for her own gain? She had assumed she’d wanted a political alliance, to help balance her failing house. 

She had been wrong about the details, but she had been right about her.

As she’d been right about the ardent. She’d assumed he’d wanted to get close to her, to hurt her, or take the Soulcaster from her. She’d been right about that. She’d trusted her instincts and kept him at bay. 

She’d let her own nature and experiences cloud her judgement when it came to Shallan. She would not make that mistake again. Another lesson for her, then.

“Jasnah?” Ivory said, sounding concerned, as he put a hand on her shoulder again. 

“I knew,” she found herself saying, shaking her head, furious at herself, as much as the child, “I knew that she would betray me, Ivory. And still I allowed her, I allowed it, I-” 

“No,” Ivory’s interruption was so stark, so surprising, that she looked up at him, frowning. 

“No,” he repeated, shaking his head firmly, “You did not  _ know _ that she would betray you, Jasnah. This is not something that can be known. It is not a rational truth. It cannot be known until it is. You did not  _ know _ . Not until it was known.” 

She looked up at him, wilting. Sometimes Ivory’s blunt, literal way of processing the world could be a bit exhausting. Especially at times like this. 

“I had more than enough evidence from previous experience to have known better,” she said, tired.

Ivory appeared to consider this, then he said quietly, “If I had used the evidence of humans’ betrayal of spren, then this would  _ not _ be,” he said, gesturing between her and himself.

She sat up a little straighter, watching him. His expression had grown distant. His sharp features had been hard to read, but she knew him well enough to read the emotion in him now.

“We had evidence that humans could not be trusted,” he went on, voice unusually soft, “That they would kill us if we bonded. But I wanted you. I wanted our bond. I went against the experience of the ancient fathers, the disapproval of the other inkspren, for you.” 

“I remember their displeasure,” she said, with a grim smile. 

The other inkspren had tried to kill her, rather than allowing Ivory to risk a bond. She sobered, realising what he was implying. 

“These bonds, we  _ need _ them,” Ivory said firmly, “Spren and humans. I must have our bond to have sentience, to have sanity, in this realm. You must have bonds with other humans for the same reason. I did not understand. But now I do. You cannot exist alone. You  _ must _ have these bonds. Even if they, too, come with the risk for destruction. This is good. This  _ is _ , Jasnah.” 

She sighed, “It does not feel good, Ivory,” she said quietly. 

“It is right to be upset, Jasnah,” he replied. 

“I am not  _ upset _ ,” she said, pointedly. 

He glowered down at her in abject disbelief. Which was appropriate, as it was a blatant lie, and she knew it. 

She sighed, deflating again, “I do not  _ want _ to be upset,” she amended, more honestly. 

Her eyes drifted to the stacks of notebooks around her and she felt suddenly cold, as another emotion swept over her. Anger. 

“We’ve lost so much time to this,” she whispered, the enormity of what they faced threatening to crush her. 

But she couldn’t let it. She couldn’t fail again. 

“We will  _ be _ ,” Ivory said firmly, jerking his chin. 

“But will we  _ be  _ enough?” Jasnah sighed, closing her eyes. 

“Jasnah?” Ivory said, sounding concerned again, even unsure, “This is not you. This uncertainty. This doubt. It is  _ not _ .” 

She smiled weakly and looked up at him, shaking her head, “I am tired, Ivory. I am  _ so  _ tired.” 

“Yes. You need more sleep. I have said this,” he agreed jerkily. 

She smiled thinly at that. Dear Ivory. Blunt and literal to the end. She loved him for that, she truly did. 

“Perhaps I do,” she agreed. 

She had been feeding on Stormlight to push herself without sleep for too long. Logically she knew that. Ivory had persisted in reminding her each night, to reinforce the point. It was just so hard to waste time lying down doing  _ nothing _ while the world teetered on the brink of desolation. 

“But I was not speaking of physical fatigue, Ivory,” she explained. 

He had grown proficient at understanding human behaviours, particularly hers, over their years. But sometimes she still had to break things down for him. 

“Ah,” Ivory said, nodding, “A human expression. A non-literal truth?” 

“It feels very literal to me now, I assure you” she said, the humour draining from her, like light sucked from a sphere. 

She rested her head on her hands again, massaging her temples, shoulders slumped. She hadn’t been this vulnerable in some time, either. For the similar reasons as Ivory. 

She had not wanted Shallan to see. She hadn’t let her know of her weariness, her fear or strain. She had tried to protect the girl from it all. Even as she planned to rob her, and possibly assist her ardent friend in her assassination, she-

Jasnah sighed heavily, feeling a deep and heavy tiredness within her very bones. 

She was glad she did not have to put up a front for Ivory. They were bonded, their souls entwined. Concealing things from him would be like concealing things from herself. She trusted him. He would never abandon her. He would never betray her. He would never hurt her. 

Probably. 

“I am tired, Ivory,” she confessed, the words coming out in a groan, heavy, and hopeless. “I am so tired of being betrayed. I am tired of trusting, only to have it used as a weapon against me and rammed into my back months later. Just when I’d finally begun to relax, to let someone in again, I’m made to feel a fool for doing so.”

Stormfather. This was so much. Pressing upon her, heavier and heavier with each passing day, demanding more and more force of will to hold it all back. 

She covered her face with her hands, voice falling away to barely more than a whisper as she found herself confessing, as if from her deathbed, “I am tired of being reminded over and over and  _ over _ again that loving someone is not enough to stop them hurting you.” 

“I love you,” Ivory said simply. 

Jasnah started, hand slipping in her shock and she turned to look up at him, lips slightly parted in surprise. 

He was gazing down at her, and somehow, his expression softened his harsh, sharp edged features. 

Absurdly, she felt her throat tighten at the words, at the sincerity, the  _ intent _ . 

Ivory did not say something unless he considered it true. And his definition of truth was one of spren, not people. 

For Ivory, truths were things that could not be otherwise. It was not enough for him to  _ believe  _ it was true, or for it to be a truth that could exist until proven incorrect, or replaced by something better. 

Ivory understood truth as a rational, mathematical thing. His truth was absolute. Unconditional. 

It was impossible for the sum of two and three to give any answer other than five. It was not possible, in this world, set as it was, for a square to have any less, or any more, than four sides. 

So, in Ivory’s mind, it was impossible for his love for her to be anything other than absolutely true.

“I do, Jasnah,” he added firmly, looking at her with gentleness, “Have I ever hurt you? Have you felt yourself worse for our bond? Our friendship?” 

“Of course not, Ivory,” she murmured, reaching out and taking his hand. It was a largely pointless gesture, as he barely had any substance, but she felt he would understand all the same. “But you’re different.” 

“Yes,” he agreed, “I am spren. We are stable, unchanging, eternal. Such is our bond. Humans, they are not. They are unstable,” he said bluntly, apparently not realising that most people would consider this rather insulting. He did not mean it as such, she knew. “But you need them. You need their change. They will help you grow.” 

She smiled hollowly and said, without much humour, “It would be nice if my growth could be spurred by something pleasant, for a change, rather than the usual onslaught of deaths, assassination attempts, and betrayals from my closest allies.” 

“Pleasant does not help you excel,” Ivory insisted, stubbornly, “It only  _ is _ , so it shall only let you  _ be _ . It push  _ you _ to change, or to become what you can be.” 

“This changes so much, Ivory,” she murmured, too weary to continue debating the potential benefits of her pain, “There are so many things we must consider now. So many potentials.” 

None of them were at all ‘pleasant’.  Ivory sniffed. He did not like potentials, loose ends, or uncertainty. On that count, she agreed with him. They needed to know precisely what they were dealing with. The full extent of Shallan’s betrayal. 

She was going to have to tear open this wound, while it was still fresh and dripping, to examine precisely how deep it went, and what damage had been done. 

They were going to have to see Shallan again. To ask her some painful and difficult questions. 

Perhaps she had merely been bribed or enticed by one of the devotaries, who considered it a sore subject that she possessed a Souclaster, something they considered a holy relic. 

The girl was strongly religious, and found great comfort and strength in her faith. Jasnah had never begrudged her that. There had been times, she was sure, that the child had feared she would attempt to convert her, or take it from her. 

No-one ever understood. She had stepped away from religion because it had not brought her any support or hope. But she knew that for many, it did. They saw their Almighty, and his teachings, as a guiding light, something that illuminated and heightened their lives. Why would she ever seek to take that light away? 

That was how she would begin her line of questioning, for that was the answer she most wished to be given. It would not be the first time it had happened, and she had been close friends with Kabsal, the ardent. 

Jasnah tapped her fingers on the table, considering the altogether more distressing alternative. 

For Kabsal, her would-be murderer, had not only been an ardent. He had also been a Ghostblood. 

Could it be that the girl had been working with them? Someone to get close to Jasnah, to allow access for Kabsal, an excuse to continue visiting her, being around her, letting him spy and make attempts on her life? In return, she would be given Jasnah’s fabrial, and the good will of her enemies. 

Storms, what a mess. 

She rose and moved to her trunks, opening the one in which she kept her notebooks. She would review the one with information on the Ghostbloods, cross reference it with the research she had done on House Davar, determine whether she could find any links or additional motives for their partnership, she- 

As she moved aside her neatly stacked notebooks, seeking the correct one, she dislodged a paper, which drifted to the floor behind her like snowfall, skidding beneath the desk. 

Ivory, who had enough physical form to interact with very light objects like sheets of parchment, retrieved it for her and held it out. 

She froze as she looked down at it. It was not a loose sheet of notes - a practice she avoided at all costs, in any case - but a drawing. One that Shallan had gifted to her, when she had accepted her as ward, wrought with such obvious skill and care. 

Jasnah closed her eyes, and felt something deep inside her tremble. This was too much. Too much for one person to bear alone. Too  _ much. _

“I don’t think I can do this again, Ivory,” she found herself whispering.

Weak. Unacceptably so. But sometimes she  _ was _ weak. For all this world tried to tell her otherwise, she was still human.

“You  _ will _ ,” he said, pushing the sketch into her hand. 

She took it from him, and knew that he was right. She  _ would _ do it. Because it needed to be done. And storm it all, whatever else, she did what had to be done. 

A part of her wanted to Soulcast the sketch to flame in her anger. But no. That would serve no purpose beyond spite. 

_ This is a lie, a lie she used to manipulate you _ , a part of herself whispered. 

But perhaps it could also be a truth. Perhaps some part of the girl had come to enjoy her time with her. Perhaps the theft had been difficult for her, painful, even. It had driven her to attempt suicide, after all. There must have been guilt, must have been regret, or doubt. 

She wasn’t sure if that made this better or worse. 

If she was simply a cold monster, removed from her, without connection, as Kabsal had been, it would be easier to hate her, easier to do what needed to be done now. 

But she had not been. She had been Shallan. She had come to matter to her. Truly. 

“Come,” she told Ivory, getting to her feet, placing the sketch carefully back inside her trunk for now, “We have work to do.” 

Hard work. Painful work. But that was the only kind she’d known for so long. There was nothing for it but to simply do it. Push through the darkness and hope that, some day, she would finally emerge into the light. 

***

**Author's Note:**

> A little non-RoW one to break things up and keep y'all on your toes! Woo! I still deeply appreciate ur comments, however...


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